


Turn the Page

by MistressPandora



Series: The Metallicar Soundtrack [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Light Angst, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Castiel has recently raised Dean from Hell. Though he watches over him, Dean still doesn't trust the Angel, until a page turns in their relationship.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Metallica's "[Turn the Page](https://youtu.be/sMqNFAU0tOw)"

The Impala charged down a two-lane blacktop, somewhere flat and empty. To Castiel, the expansive plain was teeming with life and if he let his eyes lose their focus and opened himself up to the essence of Creation around him, he would know each blade of grass, hear the minute vibrations of every winged insect for miles. The two brothers in the car however, saw only highway. They didn’t notice that they flew by scores of creatures, some awake and on the hunt for their supper, others sleeping in the sparse brush or in burrows. Sam Winchester, like the latter group of living things, slumbered with his head against the window, jacket pulled tightly around his torso. Castiel focused on the younger man only enough to know that he slept soundly, comforted by his older brother’s presence though he’d been troubled by his return. He felt a sludgy, cold darkness in the boy. Castiel knew that Sam had a part to play in the End, but looking too closely at his soul made Castiel’s Grace shrink away and the hairs on the back of his vessel’s neck and arms stand on end uncomfortably.

It was a relief to shift his gaze to the older brother. Dean drove the great, black car, thumbs lovingly stroking the leather of the steering wheel. He was like the former group of creatures: on the prowl, stalking his next prey. In this case, he barreled towards another supernatural mystery that Castiel knew to be a Seal Lilith intended to break. If Dean suspected this, he chose to ignore it. Though Castiel could not read his mind, he could easily see the storm of agony that chased him like a monster in a nightmare. In fact, it was the fear of nightmares that led Dean to his decision to drive through the night while his brother slept by his side. Music played softly from the car's speakers but Dean didn't hear it. As Castiel watched, the young man's eyes would seem to stare through the middle distance, only coming to focus intermittently on the task of driving. He knew that Dean thought of hell, of Alastair's rack, of his own table and his own knife and his own sins. It turned Castiel's Grace cold to see the man suffer so.

The Angel turned his attention to the mark on Dean's shoulder. The burnt flesh shined like a gentle blue beacon to Castiel, though to humans—and the passively observing Angel—it appeared to be only a red scar, shaped like a handprint. The scarred flesh was merely the reflection of an indelible mark left on Dean's soul which has been seared where it had come into direct contact with Castiel's Grace. It would heal, like all scars do, yet he ached to think on the pain he had caused Dean to burn away the worst of the hellish darkness clinging to his soul. Castiel had rebuilt Dean's body apologetically, cleansing and healing it cell by cell. He'd scrubbed away early signs of liver damage, polished the cartilage and bone in joints prematurely aged by a hard life of combat, flushed every inch of Dean's arteries and blood vessels, and urged each of his many wounds and scars to heal. It had taken days and exhausted Castiel but it was worth the immense effort to look upon the Righteous Man, unmarred by time and abuse and as perfect as his Father had intended.

Since Castiel had raised Dean from Perdition, the man had thrown himself into hunting and women, climbing into a whiskey bottle and fitful sleep in the absence of monsters or companionship. As the Angel watched his charge, unseen, a long shudder wracked his body, culminating in a pair of tears sliding down his cheeks. Dean’s eyes snapped to Sam and he batted away the offending drops. His expression softened to a sad smile at his brother, still sound asleep. The cloud of painful memories and dark thoughts fell upon him then like some black tide, and though Dean clenched his jaw, tears still fell. For a moment, palpable anger rolled off of him, but with another glance at his sleeping brother, Dean managed a deep breath and the tears dried up. As Castiel squinted down at his human, he saw something remarkable… absolutely no regret. As Dean smiled through his guilt and pain and misery it was clear that for him it was all worthwhile. Dean would make the same deal again to save Sam.

Dawn crept over the horizon when Sam inhaled deeply the scent of bacon and coffee. It was that which woke him more than the Impala's door banging shut. Dean passed his brother a Styrofoam cup. “Morning, Sammy.”

Sam accepted the coffee with a grateful nod and surveyed his surroundings, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Where are we?”

Dean unpacked take-out boxes from a plastic bag on the bench between them. “I don't know. Nowhere, Nebraska.”

“Dude, you drove all night?” Sam tore the plastic wrapper off a set of utensils and passed the contents to Dean.

The elder Winchester shrugged. “I kept thinking _fifty more miles_ , and then _fifty more miles_ , and well, then the sun was coming up so I figured I'd just stop for breakfast.”

Sam leveled a considering look at his brother. “Wouldn't you rather eat inside?”

A darkness passed quickly over Dean's eyes. He shook his head and fixed his gaze on his food. “Nah. I'm still, you know, getting used to people who are, well, _alive_.”

Sam frowned. Though he said nothing, Dean looked back up to meet his eyes. Dean sighed heavily. “Yes I'm okay. No I don't want to talk about it.” Castiel could smell the lie more keenly than Sam could smell the bacon. He wasn't okay.

The truth was that the moment Dean had walked into the diner his body vibrated with tension. He would have clawed his way out of his own skin if he could have. A few people made eye contact with him and Dean couldn't help but envision their weak points and how simple it would to break them apart. When his mind treated him to the image of a young mother bloodied and screaming in pain under his blade he ran to the men's room to vomit. The simultaneous urges to both remain still and just run were driving him mad. So, Dean drove on through the night, fleeing nightmares and itching for a tough battle with some supernatural evil of biblical proportions. Where Castiel heard the beating of Dean’s heart like a glorious drumbeat heralding a hero, Dean heard the ticking of a timer counting down unknown seconds to disaster.

Sam eyed his brother for a long moment while Dean stabbed at a short stack of pancakes with a plastic fork. Finally, the taller Winchester’s shoulder twitched in something distantly related to a shrug. “Why don’t you let me drive us the rest of the way in while you get some shuteye?”

Dean kept his silence for a long beat, oversized mouthful of pancakes sliding down his throat, followed by a long pull of coffee that smelled like it might contain actual gasoline. At last, he shook his head. “Nah, I’m good, Sammy. If I get tired you can take over.”

Sam sighed and tore off a generous bite of bacon.

“I just need to keep busy,” Dean said when the silence became too much for him.

“Dean, if you’re not ready to hunt…” Sam trailed off and Dean just shook his head.

“If I _don’t_ hunt,” he replied, “I’ll have time to think about Hell. And if I have time to think about Hell I’ll have flashbacks and get all jumpy and PTSD is not a good look for me, okay? Back in the game, that’s my therapy.”

When the brothers reached their destination that afternoon, Dean drank down several glasses of whiskey while Sam was at the library researching the town’s history. Dean had remained in their motel room at Sam’s insistence and under the guise of taking a nap. He did eventually fall asleep on one of the dingy, little beds, but only after drinking himself into a stupor. Castiel flew to the man’s side after he’d drifted off. He stood watch over the bed, marveling at how Dean’s eyes fluttered behind the lids, at the beads of sweat that formed on his neck. Then Dean was thrashing and moaning in his sleep, clearly overtaken by a nightmare. Loathe to see him suffer, Castiel laid a hand on his charge’s shoulder, over the Grace burn. He withdrew and vanished to the Celestial Plane when the man startled awake, green eyes like a frightened predator spoiling for a fight. Dean threw his gaze around the musty room, like he wasn’t really sure where he’d fallen asleep. He took several deep breaths until his chest ceased heaving, shrugged on his coat, and stormed out of the room.

Castiel followed him into the early evening. The sun had long-since set but the moon was nearly full, providing ample light for Dean to find his way to the bar across the parking lot. The Angel frowned as he watched his charge pay off his tab an hour later and escort a raven-haired woman out of the establishment with a hand laid over her narrow waist. She wore a sleeveless dress that hugged her frame and accentuated her curves and long legs. The pair tumbled into a different motel room—probably the woman’s—and fell into a tangled heap on the bed. Clothes were shed and flesh was caressed with open lips and Castiel averted his gaze.

The coming days brought the fight Dean had been yearning for. Castiel watched his charge battle demons, the hunter’s eyes cold and distant, taking more risks than the Angel would have liked. Dean paused briefly before diving into a group of four demons. Adrenaline flooded his system, thrilling him. In the space of a handful of heartbeats Dean’s thrill was overtaken by the realization that _he might die here_ , which was in turn swallowed by an ambivalence that was mostly acceptance with just a touch of sadness—for his brother, not himself. This wasn’t the first time since Castiel had raised Dean that he’d flirted with death, but Castiel saw that it would be the last if he didn’t intervene. The demons had him surrounded, the two he faced head-on distracting him from the third and fourth who were poised just out of his peripheral vision with knives drawn, an instant away from driving their blades through Dean’s vital organs. Spreading his wings, Castiel flew to his human’s side, hands thrust out to catch the vile creatures, smiting them in a blast of blinding white purity. The last two fled their vessels in twin clouds of black smoke. Dean whirled, scanning the abandoned warehouse for more danger. Finding none, his gaze settled on Castiel, whose Grace tingled at the attention. For a moment, Dean’s cold eyes scowled, then softened and warmed just a bit, apparently realizing that the Angel he distrusted had just saved his life.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said in a low voice.

Castiel nodded once, slowly. “Of course, Dean.”

A ghost of a smile tugged gently at Dean’s lips and as the light returned to his green eyes, a page turned somewhere between them.


End file.
